


Mementoes

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - General [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Old Age, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock, well past their prime and well into their retirement, finally move to Pekoe Cottage in Sussex. While unpacking, John stumbles across an old, tattered scrapbook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mementoes

 

“Sherlock?”  
         He didn’t look up from the box of potions ingredients he had been sorting. “Just set it over there,” he said. “Books on the second and fourth shelves. Instruments on shelves three and five. Everything else you can’t reach so don’t bother trying.”  
         John rolled his eyes and came further into the study. Carefully cradled in his hands were what appeared to be a pile of yellowed pages. It was, in fact, an old book. The spine broken and hanging on by the thinnest of threads. Scraps of paper sticking out the sides, and the cloth bits of the once intricate cover moth eaten. Leaving metal studs and patches of cracked leather behind.  
         “Sherlock, what’s this?”  
         Barely a glance was spared as a thin silver curl was brushed out of his face. Half-moon spectacles sliding down his nose as he continued to sort through the box. “It’s nothing,” he replied. “I’d forgotten I even still had it.”  
         “Looks like-“  
         “Scrapbook, obviously,” Sherlock replied, holding up a jar of dittany. “Put this on the D shelf,” he said as he held it out with one hand, the other returning to the box.  
         “Hands full,” John said, as if made much difference. Sherlock only shook the jar insistently. Cautiously John made space on the cluttered desk, then laid the fragile book gently down. Sherlock’s eyes cut to the book briefly as John took the jar of dittany to the set of shelves marked alphabetically. The set of shelves built into the wall beside them were numbered.  
         Though he still had much to do in the rest of the cottage, John resigned himself to helping his husband sort through and tuck away most of his possessions in his study. And though he had heard it all before, he let Sherlock prattle on about the cases he’d worked before meeting John. Or the dangers he faced during their three years apart as he would remove the odd piece of china or a crudely drawn map of a bazaar in Constantinople from his boxes.  
         Periodically he glanced at the ruined scrapbook, wondering what secrets it may still hold. When at last Sherlock straightened up, hands on his hips and surveyed the room, he gave a curt nod. “Well, that seems to be enough for today. Now I believe the realtor said something about beehives when she had given us the tour.”  
         “She gave me the tour. You were back in the flat with a webcam because you couldn’t be bothered to put on trousers.”  
         “You had your computer with you. I could clearly see-“  
         “Not going to argue,” John said, the tone of his voice a bit sing-song, indicating to his most likely insane husband that to continue the line of conversation would lead to at least an unenthusiastic little domestic.  
         Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a huff. “Fine… Go be helpful and make tea. It’s the only reason I’ve kept you around so long.”  
         “Oh? I thought it was because you find me to be the most fascinating man on the planet.”  
         “Biological imperative, unfortunately. Though you have proven to be very forgiving of my eccentricities.”  
         John’s aged face pulled into a smile, almost making him seem just a little younger before he shook his head. “Don’t strain yourself love. I’d be devastated if you short circuited that hard drive of yours.”  
         Sherlock gave a hint of a smile back. “Go make the tea. And a muffin.”  
         “A muffin?”  
         “You heard me. Go, before I change my mind.”  
         “But you hate my muffins.”  
         “No, I hate some of your muffins. Not all of your muffins. The ones not devoured by our children before they left are edible.” He pushed his glasses up to rest properly on his nose with a single slender finger, looking rather haughty. “As I said, go before I change my mind.”  
         So John did. And when he came back, Sherlock was seated in his armchair. Yes, that very old, very used, and very loved chair that had been in 221B from the beginning. And across from it, that same, lumpy chair of John’s. Holes patched with mismatched fabric and silver tape to keep the stuffing from falling out.  
         John gave him his tea and muffin, and was just about to sit when Sherlock cleared his throat. “What?”  
         “The scrapbook. I had thought you wanted to look through it.”  
         “Well… I mean, if you’d rather I didn’t…” He said, for argument’s sake.  
         Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, brushed back a few of his silver locks, and then picked at his muffin. “Go ahead,” he said, not bothering to look up as he inspected the little bread in his hand closely. “Did you use… Is that a cranberry?”  
         John rolled his eyes and made sure his teacup was sitting securely on the table beside his chair. “Shut up and eat your muffin,” he said as he retrieved the old book he had brought in. He was curious. Sherlock knew he was curious. They only traded banter because that was just what they did. What they had always done.  
         “Do pick up your feet when you walk, John. You’ve still got use of both legs.” Sherlock boredly picked at his muffin, setting the dried cranberries he picked out to the side on a napkin.  
         John the Long Suffering let out a heavy sigh when he returned to sit in his chair, the scrapbook in his lap. Slowly, reverently he opened the book to see a wizard photo waving at him. “Oh! Your parents start this for you then?”  
         “Hm?” Sherlock hummed as if he weren’t paying attention. But of course he had been. “Oh, yes. That. Father started it after I had been born.”  
         John turned the page. More of the moving photographs were affixed carefully to the paper. “Mycroft actually looked… sort of cute when he was a boy.”  
         “Dreadful.”  
         “I knew that hair of yours was genetic. You don’t get curls like that by chance,” John commented a few pages later.  
         The rest of the afternoon had been spent in this manner. Sherlock slowly and meticulously dissecting his muffin but only managing a few bites. Tea was sipped well after it had gone cold. And John working his way through photographs and news clippings of Sherlock’s childhood. Then his school years. When he reached the section of pages about the years Sherlock had exiled himself from the wizarding world, muggle newspaper clippings and grainy photographs joined the collection.  
         “Father kept a close eye on strange and unexplainable events that came to the attention of the muggles. He was surprisingly accurate in his assumptions.”  
         And on it went. John noticing through the jumble of ruined pages and articles some historically important event. And Sherlock simply shrugging it off and stating he’d just intended to step out for a bit and get some milk. Or had followed some stray animal to another odd scene.  
         Or that it was Thursday, and how he hadn’t wanted to get out of bed that day because for the span of seventeen months he hated Thursdays.  
         John had fallen quiet as he sorted through it all. Taking in every scrap, every clipping and picture with the same keen interest that Sherlock would devour information from everything around him. After nearly an hour’s more reading, John finally reached the end. Rather, the last pages that had anything between them. Gingerly he picked up the yellowed photograph. Careful of the charred edges, not wanting to cause any more damage to the fragile piece of paper. He glanced up, watching as his husband carefully scrutinized the patterns of his teacup, holding it close to his face so he could examine it over the top of his glasses.  
         Then back down again, John looked. At the photograph in his hand. He wondered how long ago it had been taken. Which city did he stand on the sidewalk in?  
         “I believe that was the nineties,” Sherlock said without looking away from his teacup, which was now turned upside down, the bottom receiving the same careful examination as the rest. “Just before I went to Brazil.” Ash eyes looked past the cup briefly. “Mycroft tells me it was all that survived the fire.”  
         “Fire?!”  
         “I had to cover my tracks, John. I was a wanted man in those days.”  
         “I know,” he said, now holding the photograph against one hand while the fingers of the other traced the edges of the youthful face. Not that different from the one he had married. It was fuller, healthier than he’d ever seen him. “Was this before…”  
         “Before the drugs? No. Near the beginning. I had been traveling with a muggle. I helped him in the black market exotic animals trade. Victor was…”  
         “Was what?”  
         “Far more intelligent than he had led on. And dangerous as well.” He turned his cup back over, squinting at it a moment. “Are you sure these are our teacups John?”  
         “Yes, they’re our teacups. You packed them yourself. Now tell me, what happened that caused you to set a fire and leave for Brazil?”  
         Sherlock set his empty cup down on the small table beside his own chair. “He found out what I was. Not a wizard,” he said to John’s shocked expression. “The  _other_ bit. Attempted to lock me in a cage and sell me like one of his beasts. Obviously, I took great offense. Did a few things I probably shouldn’t have, and it was necessary to set fire to the entire warehouse before the aurors turned up to arrest me.”  
         John swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “You didn’t… kill him, did you?” He knew what his husband had done, when provoked. But that was after he’d gotten clean. After he’d settled down and into his calling as a detective. Everything before…  
         “Don’t give me that look, love. I did no such thing. But you know how alarmist the Ministry is. Sneeze something a little strange and they’ll send in the aurors claiming you’re a dark wizard. I may… have been a little creative in my self defense, and turned him into something a bit unnatural. In my inebriated state I thought destroying the evidence I was even involved in Victor’s schemes was the perfect solution.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Admittedly, casting fiendfyre wasn’t the best choice of incineration. But it certainly kept my brother busy long enough for me to get away.”  
         John sat staring at him for a long moment before looking back at the photograph. “Sherlock?”  
         “Hm?”  
         “You don’t still have that hat and jacket around somewhere, do you?”  
         “No. Why?”  
         John’s lips curved into a devious smile. “Oh… I was just thinking of what I would do to you if I were fifty years younger.”  
         His husband smirked. “I think I have a few ideas…”


End file.
